


Seven Colored Spectrum

by pyrrhocorax (mniotilta)



Series: Dennor Week [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mniotilta/pseuds/pyrrhocorax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the second Dennor week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> I'm already a day late, I'm totally unprepared, and I'm writing stuff off the top of my head and figuring it out as I go (which is the exact opposite of how I normally write) but you just gotta do what you can sometimes.
> 
> Halvard "Halle" is Norway.  
> Henrik is Denmark.

The frosts of the north had swept across the land earlier this year, freezing lakes solid before the leaves had fully fallen from the trees. It had become common this year to see trees whose limbs had snapped off from the weight of the snow—trapped by the unfallen leaves—throughout the landscape. Between the heavy snowfall and long lasting storms it was a winter that very few would forget. Certainly, it was the coldest winter in recent memory. But the nipping cold couldn't stop human activity. There was need of warmth, of food, of furs and firewood. Winter is desperate, full of life, and rogue.  
  
Today is silent, with no clouds to obscure the dim-lit sun and the feeble winds that blew from the west did nothing more than rattle the skeleton-fingered branches of the trees. However, there were words here—ancient secrets tucked between the wingbeats of buntings and the rhythmic dripping of icicles—about the forest and the tall mountains looming like giants on the horizons. These were the whispers of the world that one could only hear if they listened close enough.  
  
As one such person could.  
  
Wrapped up in heavy furs, he ventures upland, hiking for an hour before stopping, sighing, and closing his eyes to listen. _Left, and then right at the fallen tree. Find the owl nestled in the hollow of a young pine and walk in the direction that its beak is pointed. Twenty paces until you’re at the water’s edge. Count your footsteps carefully and listen close. Seven forward, seven in the direction of the sun, and then three towards where the moon will hang tonight._ __  
  
And he obeys, letting the old ghosts and spirits of the world guide him.  
  
_What now?_   he thinks.  
  
_Here. Fish here. Good luck, young Halvard._  
  
And they disconnect from him, ending the conversation.  
  
There’s no reason to say thank you with them no longer listening to his thoughts. And besides, they were old friends. He makes a note to sacrifice something in their names anyway to show his thanks.  
  
Halvard digs through the freshly fallen snow of the previous evening to get to the frozen lake underneath. The ice here is dirty, with sunset-colored leaves embedded into the layers of ice that Halvard tries to break through as best he can, chiseling the outline of the hole he wishes to create with his axe. There’s limited sunlight left and he needs to make the most of it.  
  
“And why do you think you’re gonna have any luck there?”  
  
Oh boy, here we go.  
  
“I thought I smelled something gross,” Halvard groans. “Don’t you have better things to do instead of following me around?”  
  
Henrik, as rosy-cheeked as ever in the cold air, smiles wide. “Nah, I fished up like, twenty fish, more than enough for the day. I don’t understand what brought you all the way out here, but you’re better off fishin’ with everyone else down by that big lake.”  
  
Halvard, ignoring him, continues to smash the butt of his axe against the ice. No luck, so he scours deeper lines, hoping that they’ll be good enough, and rams it even harder.  
  
“Halle, for what it’s worth, we don’t know if there’s any fish down there.”  
  
“If everyone keeps fishing out of the same lake all winter, then there’s going to be no more fish,” he mutters, a little out of breath as he starts stomping his foot to break through. “Plus, I know there’s fish down here. Just trust me.”  
  
“Do you want some help?”  
  
“No,” he pants. “I’m good.”  
  
Henrik watches him struggle for a few more minutes before gently pushing Halvard aside and using his own axe, ramming and breaking through the ice perfectly in one forceful push.  
  
Henrik grins at him, beaming and proud.  
  
“You’re just lucky,” Halvard grumbles, setting up his fishing gear. “But, thanks.”  
  
“You can thank me with the first fish you catch, pal.”

* * *

  
Halvard’s fishing spot ended up being more than plentiful, with fish practically jumping out of the holes in the ice, and by the next week half the village was fishing there.  
  
“You know what, I shouldn’t have doubted you,” Henrik confesses over lunch. “You always seem to have this sixth sense when it comes to finding things.”  
  
“There’s something else that you want to say besides that though, right?”  
  
“Right again! Jeez, you are so _good_ at this!”  
  
“That’s just called reading people. You’re so expressive. It isn’t very hard.”  
  
“Reading people, intuition, a magical ability, whatever,”  he waves his hand in the air dismissively, “I just want to let you know during the first signs of spring, I think I’m going home.”  
  
“Oh.” A shock. “... Why so?”  
  
“I’ve been away from my land for a few years, and y’know, I’m probably missed. Just like these people would miss you if you left. And I mean, don’t get it wrong, I love the mountains, the fjords, being around you, all of it. But it isn’t home for me.”  
  
“But you’ll come back to visit again, right?”  
  
“Duh,” and Henrik elbows him in the side. “You’re my friend. I just wanted to let you know sooner, rather than bring it up when the snow starts to melt.”  
  
Halvard sighs, staring into the fire with a sour look. “Well,” he rubs his palms together slowly, in thought, “if you’re going back in spring… we should probably… not work tomorrow?”  
  
“In other words, you’re asking to hang out?”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
Henrik bounds to his feet and pulls Halvard up with him into a hug, bouncing up and down excitedly.  
  
“Henrik, your hands are covered in fish grease.”  
  
“Listen! We’re going to have the best time ever! Tomorrow! It’s going to be perfect!”  
  
Halvard should’ve listened to the sinking feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Henrik shook off the shackles of sleep before the sun rose, rolling over and whispering loudly into Halvard's ear while pushing him awake.  
  
“It’s cold,” Halvard groans.  
  
“Come on, if we get up now we can be halfway across the valley before sunrise! I made you breakfast!”  
  
“Is it fish.”  
  
“Of course it’s fish, silly! Get up! Rise and shine! It’s going to be a wonderful day!”  
  
It takes Halvard longer than Henrik expects to get ready so they only make it a quarter of the way across the valley before light creeps from behind the mountains.

* * *

The farther they journey away from civilization the more they begin to talk, mostly about inconsequential things, like the texture of the bark of the trees they pass by, birds eating frozen berries on thorny bushes, comparing their weapons and the differences in their stature. They laugh more as they start to climb up a mountain, flinging jokes and puns back and forth before they begin to fling snowballs. Henrik nails Halvard straight in the face. Halvard shakes himself off and runs at Henrik, plowing him into the ground and shoving a fistful of snow down his coat. They scream at each other which decays into laughter and then heavy breathing.  
  
The sky is clear, an empty ocean for the sun alone.  
  
It’s so peaceful, and Halvard reaches across the snow, inching closer and closer to hold Henrik’s hand.  
  
_You need to leave._  
  
His body flinches as a voice rushes through him like a bolt of lightning.  
  
_You need to go back home, you’re in danger, hurry, you have to run!_  
  
“What is that…?” Henrik wonders aloud, turning to his left. He spies something red close by, not the color of blood, but the color of the autumn-kissed leaves trapped in Halvard’s lake, the color of rust, the color of Henrik’s coppery hair.  
  
“A fox? A fox!”  
  
And Halvard watches Henrik shift onto his feet slowly, excited but quiet. The animal freezes solid, as does Henrik, staring into each other’s eyes in wonder.  
  
_Halvard if you want to live, you have to go now!_  
  
“Henrik, I—”  
  
But Henrik is gone, sprinting after the fox, bounding over a fallen log and out of sight in an instant.  
  
“HENRIK!” Halvard shrieks, scrambling to his feet after him in pursuit.  
  
_You’re going to die! You’re going to die if you chase them, turn around and go home!_ chant the spirits. Halvard is following the fox’s and Henrik’s tracks like a bloodhound, calculated and focused, trying to shove out the buzzing within his skull as best he can. _Can I ask for clarification, what is going on?_ he requests, but he’s only met with frantic ramblings. The spirits give up trying to reach him, dropping out of his head one by one. And then the tracks suddenly end. He can’t find them.  
  
And then there’s silence.  
  
_Why do you want me to flee?_ he asks. Nothing. He asks again. Nothing. He notices a torn piece of clothing hanging off a piece of rock, and he looks down to see the tracks leading over the mountain. In the distance, the sky is black.  
  
A storm, it was a storm they were warning him about.  
  
_Halvard,_ a old tree spirit pipes up, the only one remaining, calmly giving him directions as he stands there. _I won’t tell you what to do. I can’t tell you what it right. I can’t tell you that turning around now is going to guarantee your safety just as I can’t tell you that moving forward will bring about your death. You’re in danger regardless of what you do. But either way, you need to make a choice, and I will support you the best I can._  
  
He nods, taking the ripped cloth and climbing down to follow the tracks, wherever they lead him.

* * *

Henrik’s entire being had been so focused on chasing after the fox that he didn’t notice the dark skies above until fluffy flakes started to fall around him. He had managed to corner the animal in a hollow log, curled back with teeth bared defensively, and after such a pursuit he felt giving up was hardly appropriate. Also, he had no idea where he was, and the task of simply turning around and following his footsteps was going to be difficult with the wind starting to pick up. But getting the fox out was proving to be difficult, he couldn’t stick his axe down far enough to slay the beast and he only got scratched up by frantic paws when he tried to stick his hand down.  
  
He starts to chop away at the log, shortening its length, and that’s where everything goes wrong.  
  
Cornered, threatened, and scared, Henrik should’ve seen it coming, but he doesn't, and the fox rockets out—fur shimmering in the fading light like a burning torch—and bites him in the leg before taking off. Henrik throws his axe at it—hoping to make contact—but he only grazes it, hitting it with the handle but not the blade—enough to make the animal limp but not enough to prevent it from running. He loses his axe during this process, clattering down between cracks in the mountain. So it comes to this: the fox, stranded on a cliff-side, staring as Henrik comes closer. The snow torrenting down, nearly blinding, whipping away and draining both of them of warmth.  
  
“It’s just you and me!” Henrik shouts over the blizzard, the fox snarling back. “So, what’s it going to be?”  
  
With a bloodied fist, Henrik attempts to grab the animal, missing as the fox sidesteps and they trade places.  
  
The smart thing to do is to flee, but neither back down.  
  
The fox lunges, jumping at his throat and Henrik tries to grab it again. But the fox is much stronger than it looks, and Henrik is knocked backwards, just a little, but it’s just enough for the rock and snow to give way underneath them. With his arms around the fox, there’s nothing he can do to regain his balance.

And then he falls.  
  
And the world starts to spin.  
  
And then it stops.  
  
And Henrik sees red.  
  
And then there’s nothing.

* * *

He dreams of the warm summers he’s missed back home, of trees draped in brilliant foxfur instead of leaves, of bonfires billowing out so much smoke that they turn into thunderstorms. He dreams of being cold despite the warmth around him, of water being poured over his head that is so scalding that it burns him. He dreams of the fox and he chases it again across the same deserted winter wasteland, but this time life blossoms from both of their steps, the snow hissing and melting under their feet as plants twist up from out of the dirt and transform the land behind them into paradise. The fox escapes. Henrik wanders. The burn on his forehead hurts.  
  
He feels there’s something he’s supposed to remember but all he can think about is the fox.  
  
The sky opens up and it begins to pour sticky blood, filling his mouth with the taste of metal. Henrik tries to find water to get rid of the taste, but all the rivers and ponds are just as red as the rain pouring down.  
  
And from across a lake, he sees the fox again, soaked with blood the same as him. It stares at him, and then patters off into the woods.  
  
The world seems to shift, warping and disintegrating. Henrik turns around.  
  
The fox is there, in front of him.  
  
Bloody and dripping with fire.  
  
It lunges for his throat and knocks him over.  
  
All he sees is red again.

* * *

But it stays red, a murky, rotten red.  
  
The pain on his scalp feels worse than ever, but he feels warmer, at least mostly. He tries to open his eyes but they feel crusted over and swollen. His whole body feels heavy. He’s unsure whether or not he can move. It takes four tries before he manages to open his eyes.  
  
He’s met with the brown eyes of the fox.  
  
He panics, trying to do his best to yell and fight back, but his voice cracks and his limbs won’t obey him. Like magic, the eyes back away from him, transforming, and he sees that they aren’t brown, but blue.  
  
It’s Halvard, who looks quite worried but also very cross.  
  
“Rest,” Halvard orders.  
  
The world swims and the next thing Henrik remembers, he's staring up at the bright blue sky.

* * *

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” are the words that Halvard greets him with. Henrik doesn't see him, only hearing his voice and the sound of shuffling snow. He asks questions and receives answers  
  
Where am I? On our way back home. I'm dragging you on a makeshift sled. How long was I out? I've lost track of time, I don't know. My head hurts. That's a common symptom of idiots who decide to chase foxes and jump off cliffs and bash their heads into rocks. That's right, the fox, what happened to it? I have your damn fox, don't you worry.  
  
“It's for you.”  
  
Halvard stops pulling the sled and pauses.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yeah, I tried to get it for you, that's why I chased it to begin with.”  
  
Footprints, coming closer, and Halvard peers into Henrik's line of sight like a dark shadow, judging.  
  
“You what.”

“It was going to be a gift, for letting me stay with you, and something you can hold onto when I'm gone.”

“So you risked your life and mine for a fox pelt? To somehow make me happy? That’s the most moronic thing I've ever heard in my life.”

“Well, when you put it like that it doesn't sound very romantic.”

“You're really lucky that I'm such a good friend,” Halvard marches away to start dragging the sled again. “That I didn't even think twice about risking my own life for yours. If I hadn't, you'd be dead."

“I know I'm lucky to have you, and thank you. You deserve like, a hundred foxes.”

“Enough of the damn fox shit."

“But really. Thank you.”

“What are friends for?” Halvard sighs, and even though Henrik can't see him, he can tell that he's smiling.

They are both quiet the rest of the way home.

* * *

The foxfur goes up in flames, as Halvard throws it into the nightly fire, something that Henrik doesn't understand and when he asks he only manages to pry from Halvard a string of jumbled words about owning the gods a thousand favors for what he did. A sacrifice, for escaping death by the skin of their teeth. Watching the flames overtake the already flame-colored fur makes him think about the dreams he had, of the final images of the fox, bloody and burning and mouth crackling with sparks, an ethereal danger, something that could never be real. The barren winter to the living spring, such dreams are where fairytales come from. After hitting his head so badly, he shouldn't be surprised to have had images of the otherworldly.  
  
He laughs and cracks a joke about these things, but Halvard only half laughs, like he's disinterested, much more interested in the amorphous, transforming fire in front of him than he is of Henrik's terrible jokes.

And perhaps Henrik is lying to himself because he realizes that things don't add up. He thought he had torn his clothes—in fact, he's nearly certain that he did—but on the sleeve that he remembers being ripped there's no sign that there was ever any damage. And if Halvard said he had fallen from where he said he did, how was it that he hadn't broken any bones, how come he just had a small gash on his forehead? The sled Halvard claimed to be makeshift had symbols and runes carved into it and was clearly ornamental—something he wouldn't have been able to do up in the mountains. And the foxfur, Halvard told him that he had cleaned it from the body while waiting for the blizzard to pass, but Halvard didn't have the right tools on him to accomplish that task so cleanly. And if Henrik was being honest with himself, looking into Halvard's eyes reflecting the light of the fire, there was something not quite human about him that he had never noticed before.

But friends have their secrets and each has their own way of being that nobody can ever hope to fully understand. It wasn't Henrik's place to pry and these unanswered questions didn't keep him up at night. He would forget these doubts and simply accept Halvard the way he was. His fingers wander and he interlocks them with Halvard's.  
  
"I'll miss you, you know," Halvard tells him, squeezing his hand. "When you go, I mean. I'll worry about you."  
  
"I wouldn't expect anything less."  
  
He leaves Halvard in the springtime empty handed— with no prized furs or treasures—but Halvard cups his cheeks before he parts and tell him that memories are all that really matter, anyway.

In Denmark, where he spends the next summer, he dreams of Halvard—draped in red foxfur—blue-eyed and smiling.


	2. Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to accept that I'm going to be constantly a day behind and just roll with it.
> 
> Prompt was "mistletoe."

Another year, another round of parties. Formalities, senseless gift-giving, and spending leisurely time in a home that is not your own. Such is the spirit of the season.  
  
Halvard, as a person, has reached the age where he doesn't see the need in pointless celebration. It's for show, for tradition's sake, a gesture of goodwill between nations and an opportunity to relax amongst their own kind. He doesn't resent it, exactly, and when pressured he wouldn't use words such as hate, but he'd rather be home.  
  
Arthur is a long time friend, both on a professional level and personal, so when the invitation comes in the mail for a Christmas party, Halvard replies. “I'll come,” he writes, but nothing more, singing his name in dark ink and mailing out his response the next day. He marks a day on his calendar and requests to attend “a meeting of diplomatic relations,” to which he receives permission, and Halvard counts down the days until he has to travel.

* * *

The address he receives for the party is outside of London so he hails a taxi, bumping into a young lady with a distinct accent who Halvard immediately recognizes. The nation of Belgium and the Kingdom of Norway hug (or rather she hugs him first and he awkwardly returns the gesture back) and share their ride together. They catch up, with she asking the questions and he answering with few words before asking a variation of the same question back. Clarifications, congratulations, and talks of the celebration they are about to attend. It's nice to catch up with an old friend and she offers him chocolate (which he takes). He jokingly asks if she'd like a little bit of mackerel in return.  
  
“I'll take a raincheck on that one, Halle,” she grins.

* * *

The house is just as Halvard had pictured it, with perfectly trimmed bushes and decorations covering the entire house. The streetlamps bathe the snow on the sidewalk in orange and the two countries step out of the car and knock at the door, hearing the sounds of faint music and muffled speaking leaking out from behind the door and windows. He knocks again, harder, and takes a step back to take in how truly bright all of the lights are.  
  
“The entire building is practically blinking,” he says.  
  
She mentions something about how someone could probably land an airplane on the roof with that many lights (he scoffs in response) and she rings the doorbell this time.  
  
“Coming, coming!” The two of them hear the host muttering additional comments to himself before opening the door, inviting them both inside and exchanging brief pleasantries and gifts. Arthur pulls Halvard aside, telling him that there were many paranormal and otherworldly subjects he'd like to discuss but unfortunately, even if they were to talk the night away, that wouldn't even cover half of it. Instead, they talk about recent news, discoveries, brief spells, Arthur slips him a small satchel of dried herbs from his garden and Halvard does the same. At that point, the door rings again—multiple times once the first ring goes unanswered for a few seconds—and nobody is surprised when Alfred pulls Arthur into a big hug as soon as the door opens.  
  
Halvard remains a wallflower, saying hellos and asking the same three scripted sentences to anyone who approaches him with similar intent. He's content to drink punch and munch on cookies from the corner, watching and listening to snippets of conversation. When Natalia shows up, stomping her boots by the door to remove them of snow before stepping inside, he admits he's surprised to see her. She joins him in listening quietly from the corner—and with the addition of a similar minded friend—they poke jokes and making playful, mocking comments about the other members of the party. She makes a joke about Antonio that Halvard didn't see coming and he starts laughing—but since he had just bitten into another gingersnap a moment before he starts coughing sharply on little dry crumbs instead. She hits him on the back and tells him to get it together, which doesn't help, but soon he's regained his composure and admits her joke was good. She smiles tiny and thanks him.  
  
The house gets noisier, much more crowded as more people arrive, and from another room Halvard hears Arthur politely (but sternly) ask his guests to not bench press his couches to show off their strength. It's silly act that reminds Halvard of a certain someone and out of plain curiosity he shoves the last cookie into his mouth and peers in through the doorway.  
  
He doesn't know why he finds himself surprised (as he expected both of them as likely culprits) when he finds Henrik and Gilbert disappointingly putting the couches back in their proper places. The couch situation resolved, the party resumes back to normal, and by chance Henrik and Halvard make eye-contact.  
  
“Hey, I didn't know you were coming,” Henrik cocks his head to the side and greets him in the doorway.  
  
“I could say the same back to you.”  
  
A litter of questions pile forth. Where are you staying? Is Berwald here? What about your brother? What flight were you on? I haven't seen you in a while, sure is a busy year, huh? I didn't think I was going to see you for another week or so, what a surprise!  
  
“A surprise indeed,” Halvard nods, “but not an unpleasant one.”  
  
And normally Henrik would pounce on that comment, milking Halvard's affection as much as he could, but Henrik's chin is pointed upward, distracted, blinking, thinking. He looks back at Halvard blankly before looking up again.  
  
Halvard follows his gaze and sighs.  
  
Mistletoe.  
  
Mistletoe is a parasitic plant.  
  
It can't survive without a host, attaching to other plants and penetrating their bark in order to draw out water and nutrients to sustain itself. The trees and bushes it attaches to will grow stunted, warped from mistletoe sucking the life out of it for as long as they both live. It kills, but kills slowly, before the host finally dies and the mistletoe along with it. Gluttonous until the end.  
  
Some species of mistletoe are deadly poisonous.  
  
And then in Norse myth, arrows fletched from this plant were a murder weapon.  
  
Not something appropriate as a symbol of love, surely, but one of toxicity, unfairness, and death.  
  
Halvard reaches up and pulls the sprig down from the door frame, gingerly plucking one of the berries off to roll between his fingers. It's pale, ghostly white, translucent. Maybe poison is something needed in the world, for one person's toxins could be another person's lifeblood, but to Halvard, it doesn't seem right. He doesn't need to be reminded of the relationship issues that he's had with Henrik in the past and the look on Henrik's face cues him in that Henrik is thinking the same thing. They're both oddly sad, looking at anything other than each other.  
  
“Stay for a minute,” Henrik mutters, prying the plant from Halvard's hands gingerly and placing a steady hand on his shoulder as he passes. He returns.  
  
“I don't know why Arthur has these—the color is odd for the holiday—but I think they're much better.”  
  
Halvard watches as Henrik tries to delicately balance a different plant where the mistletoe once hung to little success. Roses, unfortunately, are not made to sit perfectly still on nails above door frames. Eventually, Henrik rips the nail out of the wall with his bare hands, stabs it through the stalk of the flower, and jams it back into the wall.  
  
“No one will be able to tell the difference,” he huffs, proudly.  
  
“Orange?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“The rose. It's orange.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I thought that would be more appropria—” Henrik's final words are cut off as Halvard kisses him. It's a single kiss, but drawn out, before Halvard ends it.  
  
“I agree,” Halvard smirks.  
  
Arthur fails to notice the rose or the missing mistletoe, now hanging from above the toilet, until the party is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Orange roses are said to represent enthusiasm, passion and "I'm proud of you" sort of feelings, while also toying the line and representing both friendship and romance (as friendship is represented with yellow roses and romance with red). That being said, orange roses aren't a sign of something romantic, but you can interpret it to be something romantic or something platonic depending on the context. It's open to interpretation and what you want it to mean in this fic, too. 
> 
> \- Some #naturefacts and some information about the history of mistletoe:
> 
> One hypothetical reason as to why some people think mistletoe is a symbol of love (or at least, it's traditional to kiss under it) seems to be in relation to the Norse myth where it is used to kill a god. Kissing under the mistletoe, with it being a weapon, is thought to be a kind of truce and a way to resolve problems. Kind of a "let's bury the axe and make up" sort of thing with the mistletoe being the axe. There are other reasons that could explain why the tradition of kissing under the plant exist, but to me, that's the most interesting one. 
> 
> Mistletoe is also associated with fertility oddly enough too. The first reason for this is it tends to stay green during the winter (as it leeches what it needs to live from other plants). The other reason is that the berries of many species of mistletoe, when burst open, contain a liquid with similar color and consistency as, well, semen. When I learned this I laughed for about five minutes thinking about old timey people thousands of years ago going "hey look at this jizz plant."
> 
> Although mistletoe is a parasite to other plants and causes them to die, one of the things that's interesting is that mistletoe seems to be a necessary species in the ecosystem! Birds very extensively use it for both nesting and food and it has been found that when mistletoe is removed from various environments, it tends to negatively impact the health of the ecosystem. I kind of painted it in a bad light here because I thought it was quite strange that a parasitic plant was used as a symbol of love/affection/etc and to take the opposite route, about what it really is, was too interesting to pass up. I'm just saying that even if it's parasitic it also impacts the ecosystem positively in some cases.


	3. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Aurora Borealis," and this might take the cake for "fastest fic I've ever wrote" in a long time it probably took me an hour and a half before editing, tops.
> 
> Just as a forewarning, this chapter has a lot to do with chronic/repetitive episodes of depression primarily based on my own experiences/thoughts.

The bristles of his brush, coarse and brittle with age, smear paint across the canvas messily, unrefined, overwhelming the backdrop of the white peppered night. Too much yellow, too bold, filling the cold sky with too much warmth. Rays of light are like sharp knives that slice through darkness and chase shadows away. The colors of sunshine don't belong in the night sky for a reason. It is impossible, a deformed dream corrupted by the imagination, to believe that the sunlight will follow you and always shine over your head.  
  
But art doesn’t have to follow logic and so he smears the light of the sun across the painting like waves, oceanic currents spreading warmth throughout the murky depths, sinking, sinking until trickling into the abyss. Yellow, yellow paint mixed with white, Henrik dips his brush and mixes a new color on his skin. He’s run out of room on his pallet and his body works just as well. He flicks his brush and gives himself freckles.  
  
There's snow on his windowsill but he paints a summer night.

* * *

“I’m suffering,” Halvard tells him on a summer day, sprawled upside down across his bed, the final syllable dropping off his lips like a bombshell. At high noon the world outside is cartoonish and the light pouring in through the window of Halvard’s bedroom—illuminating his entire body and making his blonde hair glow gold—is bright and powerful, nearly blinding.  
  
Those words hurt Henrik the hardest because he knows exactly what it is like. He knows Halvard is trying, he knows Halvard wants to win, but he’s failing, being ripped to pieces by his own fickle heart.  
  
_"Just smile!"_ the sun sings, a chipper reminder that there is happiness to be found, that people are laughing, and there’s no reason to be sad. There’s no point to your pain, so just smile, just brush off your sticky feelings and pretend like nothing is wrong. Slap a pre-drawn smile across your silly little face and stand in the sunshine until nothing is wrong. Why punish yourself on such a beautiful day? Why punish yourself when there's no reason to feel the way you are feeling?  
  
It’s not as simple as that.  
  
It’s never been that simple.  
  
And there’s some days where things can be done to bring the warmth in your soul back.  
  
And there’s some days where nothing can save you.  
  
“It’s not your fault.”  
  
“It’s not yours, either.”  
  
Their house feels empty. Henrik watches him from across the room with his fingers paused over the pages of the book he was reading.  
  
“I’m suffering,” Halvard repeats again because he doesn't know what else to do.

* * *

And during these times, it doesn’t matter how bright or long the days are. It is as if a pair of scissors hastily cut the ever-grinning sun out of the sky and all that remains behind is the messy, torn hole in the painting. You can throw as much yellow pigment as you want on the paper and smear it around until the entire picture is neon and blinding. But there’s still a circular void, a single piece missing.  
  
Life without the sun is dark and there's no easy fix for that.

* * *

But there’s still starlight, there’s still moonlight, there’s still a source of happiness, untapped and perhaps unknown, that exists far away in the depths of space if you’re willing to fight for it, if you're willing to magnify it with a telescope.  
  
“What can I do to help you?”  
  
And sometimes the remedy comes through being alone, sometimes it comes through putting on the persona of characters out of a play and acting out scenes from comedies and tragedies until your voices are hoarse, sometimes it’s a car ride to the ocean to watch the waves pile sand up on the beach and to laugh along with the gulls who soar overhead. Sometimes it’s these idealized, poetic gestures that work.  
  
Other times it is Henrik forcefully carrying Halvard out of bed and telling him that lying there for days isn’t going to help. Sometimes Henrik has to force himself to do things he doesn’t think he can handle. Sometimes, people need another person to drag them across the floor while they kick and scream and shout and claw in tears because they don't think they can do it.  
  
It’s never been pretty.  
  
Whoever thinks that it is pretty is wrong.

* * *

Henrik finishes his painting and while it dries he smears the remaining yellow paint across his arms like a comet tail. In the pallet there is extra blues and blacks and he smears those across his face like battle paint, dirties his knuckles, takes his shirt off and slams a multi-colored palm across his stomach and laughs at the imprint it leaves.  
  
“That looks fun.”  
  
Halvard smirks. In his eyes there’s no sadness that occasionally plagues him, no melancholy to tear him down today. “I like your painting, it turned out nice. And whatever you’re doing with yourself, it looks nice too.”  
  
Henrik responds not with words but by taking his yellow forearm and pressing it against Halvard’s face. They both smile.  
  
They unscrew the caps of other colors and spend hours painting each other nonsensically, abstractly, running outside and chasing each other in the snow with paintbrushes and colors dripping from their fingers just as the northern lights dance overhead, chasing and wavering throughout the night. They shiver, they are alive, and they spill bright colors across the ground.  
  
I’m so happy, I’m so glad.  
  
(These are the words they tell each other as they strip paint from their skin with hot water in the shower.)  
  
I don’t remember a time that I’ve been so content, everything is so wonderful, what a world, what a beautiful world, what a beautiful life this is, and how beautiful you are, with paint in your hair and carefully brushed landscapes across your back.  
  
How hard we’ve fought, how hard we’ll continue to fight in the face of it all.  
  
(They hang the painting of the yellow aurora on the refrigerator as a daily reminder that even in the dark not all is lost.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The varying colors of different auroras are mainly due to the composition of the particles in the air which is why you can have a wide range of different looking auroras. There are other reasons but if I have to be honest I have a headache and I don't feel like researching a whole lot to fully comprehend why and how it all works.
> 
> "Aurora" itself means "dawn" which I think is interesting to play with, especially since dawn is associated with rebirth and change, usually in a positive way.


	4. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fallen even farther behind but there's only so much I can do about that. 
> 
> Prompt was "New Year's kiss."
> 
> Jóhannes is my name for Iceland.

Having a cold on the eve of the new year? Not a good omen. People are supposed to be green with freshness, turning over a new leaf and ready to take on the challenges of the next year, not green with sickness. Henrik has had no such luck. He thought the roughness in the back of his throat was from drinking coffee that wasn’t cool enough to drink, slight burns and nothing more. Nothing to be concerned about.  
  
The day he was supposed to leave Copenhagen, riding a train to Stockholm, he wakes up with a cough and his nose running. He drinks a glass of water and goes back to sleep, hoping that a nap will clear out whatever is causing him to feel sick, but he only feels groggier when he checks the time on his phone three hours later. He searches through his medicine cabinet—sparsely furnished—for anything to reduce his symptoms. He checks his temperature—a fever—and after some deliberation he sighs and sends a message to everyone going to Berwald’s new year’s party.  
  
"i can't make it im sick :( :( :’( <\3"  
  
His mass text receives barrage of “I hope you feel better!” type of messages and he collapses on the couch with a huff, turning on the news for background noise and closing his eyes.

* * *

Usually nations get sick because of political and societal reasons, recessions causing nausea and unrestful gatherings turning into migraines as they grow. Nations tend to have a vague idea as to what is causing their deteriorating health but in these modern days it is common to google their national news, searching for the cause among the headlines rather than looking up their symptoms. Unless an epidemic has swept the nation, getting sick from an actual illness like a regular human is rare, a once in a century occurrence.  
  
Getting sick is frustrating enough, but it is even more so if you belong to a species who rarely gets sick at all.  
  
“This is bullshit.” Henrik groans, throwing a pillow over his face and signing into it. “Why today, of all days?”  
  
He was looking forward to partying, to letting loose and drunkenly chanting the numbers down to zero with his family and friends, but instead he’d just have to do it with a hoarse voice alone. Well, mostly alone.  
  
His cat—a birthday gift from Jóhannes five years ago—pads over and jumps onto his belly, purring as Henrik begins to stroke her thick, long fur. She curls up, batting him in the face with her long tail, and peers down at his flushed face with her vibrant green eyes.  
  
“This is so you won't get lonely,” was Jóhannes’ quiet explanation for getting him the rambunctious kitten, starting at the ceiling so he didn’t have to look Henrik in the eye. “Something that can mostly take care of itself when you're on diplomatic trips, but something that be a source of comfort when you’re lonely.”   
  
She served her purpose well. The bells on her collar jingle as she jumps off his stomach after he falls asleep two hours before the countdown.

* * *

The noisy cheering from the television and a furry paw poking his cheek wakes him up as the clock strikes twelve and 2015 comes to a close. He halfheartedly celebrates as he gets up and searches through his pantry for something quick to eat, his cat trailing behind him and jumping up onto the counter to flex her claws. He can hear his phone vibrating, lighting up with messages of celebration as 2016 finally arrives in his time zone, and he lets it buzz for several minutes while humming a tune to his cat, who mews, scratching her green collar. The new year doesn't feel like much, standing in the kitchen, looking at an animal who could care less about the passage of a year. To her, it is just another night with her owner and nothing more.  
  
He scrolls through his texts once his phone stops getting them and reads them. Some of them are long (like Tino’s half drunk, misspelled rant about how much he cares about Henrik) some short (Gilbert sends him a single emoji of a chicken), some not quite on topic (“t-minus four billion years until the andromeda galaxy and the milky way collide” from Natalia).  
  
Halvard sent him an image. A selfie (a rare treat), smug and calm with half of his face obscured by what looks like a wall. “Happy new year,” says the accompanying text. “Feel better soon. Many kisses.”   
  
Henrik grins.  
  
Not quite a new year’s kiss, but he’ll it.   
  
Meanwhile, Halvard sits on a couch while people cheer around him, running the edge of his phone across his lips and smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I listened to nothing but space jam remixes while writing this just fyi.
> 
> \- The Milky Way (our galaxy) and our nearest similar-sized neighbors (the Andromeda Galaxy) are indeed going to collide in about 4 billion years. By that, they aren't going to ram into each other and explode like we usually think of collisions, but basically they're going to engulf each other and form a new galaxy, the tentatively named "Milkomeda" or "Milkdromeda."
> 
> I always remember this factoid because in 8th grade, one of my classmates signed something like this into my yearbook. I don't remember the exact phrasing (or if it was about Andromeda specifically) and I don't have my yearbook on hand to check, but it essentially said what I had Belarus say. At the time I didn't think that much of it but looking back, it's sort of funny to have this message surrounded by all these other heartfelt, normal ones. It's just something that always stuck with me.


	5. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Stars."

There’s a critical point after the sun sets, a few minutes of time before the light totally slips away, where the edge of the earth looks like a rainbow. A glossy, muddled red, fading into oranges and yellows and then a faint green before blue. It is only during this brief moment where the sky still retains its blue coloration _—_ much darker than it is during the daytime but still a definite blue _—_ before fading into blackness.  
  
“I wish it wasn’t going to storm,” Henrik whines, sighing at the dark gray sheets roaming in from the east, “it really looks like tonight would’ve been perfect to see the stars.”   
  
“The meteor shower won’t end for a few days.”   
  
“Yeah, but I’d rather start off everything with a bang!” Henrik slams his fist against his palm to prove a point. “I’m impatient.”   
  
“The Quadrantids aren’t going anywhere, there’s the next day, or next year.”   
  
“Yeah, but we didn’t come out all the way to your country house for nothing, y’know?”   
  
The wind picks up as the last faint rays of sunlight decay into blue.   
  
“Let’s go inside?”   
  
“Mhmm.” 

* * *

They have to wait a while before the shower starts _—_ as night peaks earlier in the winter—so they busy themselves. Halvard knits quietly, noise-canceling headphones on his head which disrupts the flow of his natural hairstyle, waves of hair curling up at unusual angles, while Henrik watches some dull local program on TV and mutters to himself about now funny some dialects of Norwegian are.  
  
Then, suddenly, the power goes out.   
  
“Oh, okay,” Henrik blinks with his mouth open, words that Halvard can’t hear, frozen in mid-knit.   
  
Halvard shakes his head from side to side quickly, dislodging the headphones from over his ears to hang loosely around his neck, and asks Henrik a question.   
  
“Do you remember where I keep the flashlight?”   
  
“Yep.”   
  
“Could you go get it?”   
  
“It’s dark.”   
  
“Wow, no shit,” and he keeps on knitting in the dark, trusting that his hand movements are accurate, or at least he hopes. 

* * *

The storm howls outside, battering the windows with snow and wind and rocking the skeleton of this old house. On the coffee table _—_ the same table in which Henrik is resting his sock-covered feet on _—_ is a single high-powered flashlight that illuminates nearly the entire room in a soft glow. Neither of them is that worried, enjoying the harsh sounds of the outdoors with half-lidded eyes, but Henrik is a little sad about the lack of clear skies.   
  
“I really wanted to see the stars,” he whines.   
  
“Lie on your back.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“Just do it. Look up and tell me what you see.”   
  
“The beams of the ceiling, some shadows… particles of dust?”   
  
“This house is very dusty.”   
  
“That’s probably not a good thing.”   
  
“Oh, hush. Look closer, right above the flashlight.”   
  
Henrik turns his head and looks where the beam is brightest, a cone of light pointed upwards that spreads and spreads endlessly. Dust particles, reflecting as beams hit them, swirl around the base, twinkling, rising, falling, getting brighter, getting dimmer. They are like the stars overhead, only smaller, as real stars are just compacted dust, too. Halvard, still knitting, gets out of his chair and kneels down, blowing air out between his lips with a noise not like the whooshing winds outside. The glittering dust wavers, displacing itself and shooting out of the light, before other particles rise to replace them.   
  
A miniature universe, a smaller version of what goes on beyond this house, beyond the storm, beyond the solar system.   
  
“It’s the best I can do,” Halvard sighs as he collapses back into his chair.   
  
It’s simple, an overlooked miracle, the dancing of dust would be boring if not framed in such a way, only telling the tale of Halvard’s dusty mountain home and nothing more.   
  
But, in Henrik’s wide blue eyes, it is beautiful.   
  
He watches as particles dance in the light, all night long, to the sound of gale winds and the clicking of knitting needles.   
  
And he is just as happy. 

* * *

In the morning Henrik wakes up on the couch with another blanket covering his body, face still pointed in the direction of the flashlight, now turned off. He sits up, the lights are back on, and he looks down at his feet, which are covered by newly knitted blue socks, flecked with white speckles, replacing his old, decaying ones he wore the night before.  
  
Halvard, still in his chair, has fallen asleep with yarn draping over his hands and the beginnings of a scarf to match the socks peeking out from underneath his fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Quadrantids are the first meteor shower of the year, occurring at the beginning of January.
> 
> \- This was vaguely inspired by a power outage that happened in early October due to a rainstorm in the night that lasted several hours as well as the sunset I saw last night while driving. It wasn't spectacular, but it faded into a distinct rainbow as the sun set, which was really cool and pretty.


	6. Indigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up with the rest of Dennor week several weeks later* Whoops.
> 
> I got busy! But I'm finally finishing this off.
> 
> Prompt was "fairies," kind of went in a different route not quite working with that concept directly but *shrugs*

For those who possess a second-sight, it’s hard to imagine what the world would be like without it. When Henrik perceives Halvard lazing on the couch, curled fingers resting underneath his chin, looking outside the window at nothing, what does he think? In the heavy snow, foot high and still flaking down, is that all that he thinks Halvard sees? Emptiness? There’s no birds at the bird feeder, a lull in activity but Halvard is watching ghosts, imprints of the animals who haven’t made it through the winter and haven’t yet moved on, still foraging and interacting with each other as if they were still flesh and bone. A live bird hops out of the brush into the snow and cracks a fallen seed open with its beak, aside it a ghost of the same species. They are both as real as the other—different, of course but he doesn’t dismiss the haunting of his backyard in the way he suspects his little brother does.  
  
“Anything good out there?” Henrik asks, standing behind him.  
  
“No,” he purrs in response.  
  
“Is it going to keep snowing?”  
  
_You heard him. Is it?_ he asks the spirits of the snow, falling to earth, encapsulated in the fluffy flakes. He gets his response and relays it.  
  
“Yes, for another hour or so, depending.” Halvard stretches and slides to his feet. He tells Henrik he’s going to refill the bird feeders before they get too low. Henrik asks him if he’ll be warm enough, if he wants to borrow a second pair of gloves, if he wants something warm to drink when he comes back inside.  
  
Yes, no, yes, thank you, I’ll be alright. 

* * *

There’s already a half-filled bucket of birdseed—enough to fill the five feeders—but before he carries this out of the shed he unscrews the covered lid on top and looks inside. One cup, plastic and red, and another, wooden with a crack along part of the rim. Perfect, as everything should be. He grabs that, an unopened bag of peanuts, and some suet balls that Halvard made himself. There’s a routine once he goes outside: suet first, peanuts second, seed last. The crows which dig through his compost pile know him by sight and simply look up once before returning to picking their way through eggshells and scraps of meat underneath the snow. When a handful of peanuts is thrown their way, they scatter, jumping from surprise, but pounce down quickly to rip open the husks. A ghost crow—the only one in the flock—tries desperately to pick up the nuts and seems frustrated when the bird’s beak goes right through the object.  
  
The living birds feed.  
  
The ghosts hunger.  
  
Halvard holds the wooden cup to his lips and waits. 

* * *

Inside, Henrik watches. The coffee pot is brewing and there will be a warm cup waiting by the time Halvard comes back inside. But although the task of feeding the birds is complete, Halvard won’t come inside so easily. He never does, seeming to prefer the harshness of the elements than the coziness of the indoors. “Why aren’t you coming inside?" Henrik asked once, “Aren’t the bird feeders full? Aren’t you cold?” Words that seemed to infuriate Halvard when he asked them. He learned to stop asking what it was that Halvard did after refilling.  
  
He stopped asking, but he kept watching.  
  
After raising the empty wooden cup to his lips, kissing it with open eyes that scan the treeline, he drops it with both hands, landing upside down, every time. The empty bucket and the empty bag of peanuts also get flipped upside down, but more carefully, on either side of the cup. Halvard claps once, draws a circle and an X on the remaining corners so that the cup is surrounded by four objects like a compass. And like a compass, Halvard lies down atop the cup on his back with his head pointing north. He remains still for exactly three minutes, regardless of how much snow piles atop his body—head between the bucket and the X—before clapping again and sitting upright.  
  
Up to his feet. Spins around in circles six times. Stands on the X and leaps over into the circle. Picks up the cup and turns it upright before doing the same with the bag and the bucket. Halvard breathes—and this is the most interesting part to Henrik—picking up the cup and perfectly miming scooping seed from the bucket as if it is actually there, flinging the non-existent contents across the snow. He continues to do this, throwing away nothing over and over again, until the bucket is deemed empty and flipped upside down again. The peanuts go in much the same way—scooped out with the cup—but the difference is he plucks peanut-sized air and throws each individual nut, or at times kneels down and seems to offer it to something in thin air.  
  
Soon, the bag too is flipped upside down again, and Halvard sits cross-legged in the snow, waiting. 

* * *

He watches the little ghosts feed, excited and chirping around him, the dead crow now eating along with the flock it once belonged to. Others come to him, led by fairies from the forest—mice, rabbits, an elderly elk who just couldn’t make it until spring. All of them are pale with death.  
  
Halvard is glad to see them all. 

* * *

And sure, the wooden cup is interesting, but Henrik’s favorite part is when Halvard starts to dance, rising to his feet slowly and snow avalanching off the sides of his coat. With it snowing so hard, it’s hard to tell, but on other days Henrik is certain he’s seen lights rising with him, these lights the same color found in between blue and purple, faint, swirling, and tucking themselves inside Halvard’s clothes. The oncoming dance is neither graceful nor defined, just a series of jerky motions mixed with fluid bows and dips. It’s the definition of chaotic, the kind of dancing that when put on stage would only satisfy the soul of the dancer themselves. It’s movement, it’s feeling, but it’s unprocessed, unrefined, always different.  
  
He’ll never understand, never know why. He’ll never truly get all of Halvard’s rituals, the things he does, and whether or not it's magic like Halvard sometimes says it is or whether it’s just something that Halvard has convinced himself to believe in order to cope with all these years of living, Henrik will never know. And really, he doesn’t want to know the truth, because if Halvard is happy, happy to move so forcefully to the point that he loses his balance and falls flat on his back at the very end of it, raising his arm to point upwards at the sky before slamming his palm down into the snow, then does the truth matter? Does the truth matter if you’re happy?  
  
All Henrik knows is that he’d rather see Halvard come inside, muttering something about how he’s glad he could help the souls of the lost pass on, looking relieved and happy.  
  
He takes his snowy coat off for him and offers him coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Indigo is associated with magic, and in terms of the rainbow is also a color that’s difficult to pinpoint exactly because it is in this in-between range of blue and purple. Indigo isn’t really a color most people use in English to describe the color of an object and I absolutely think that if you gathered up a bunch of people and asked them “where does indigo begin between blue and purple” the range of answers would suggest that nobody is that certain. Or, at the very least, I’m uncertain.
> 
> \- Suet is a kind of high calorie fat that’s often used in making ball and cake treats for wild birds, usually mixed with seeds and other things birds like and hung. Oddly enough, when I was researching whether or not suet is used in places outside the US for feeding birds, I discovered that out of four languages the “suet cake” page is in, one of those is Norwegian. Go figure.


	7. Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Warm and Cold."

Warmth: The breath of the sun, a warm meal after the cold, crackling fire, the still warm cinders, rustling of the blankets and the hot wind rattling leaves, the touch of another, closeness, familiarity, of home the location and of home the memory, a feeling, not a thought, Henrik’s frequent laughter, Halvard’s less frequent expressions of fondness, hot cookies right of the oven, apple picking, the trees and their flames before winter comes, the handle of a spoon sitting in a mug of tea.  
  
Coldness: The kiss of the moon, the feeling of water trickling down a throat, the frigid plunge and cracking ice, the ocean tumbling down, a snowball right to the face, distance, parting, away from something known, somewhere safe, a thought, not a feeling, although feelings can be plenty cold and thoughts plenty warm, Halvard’s stare, Henrik’s frown, feeling unfulfilled in summertime, your home with the heating goes out, the imprints of snow angels whispering against your neck, absence.  
  
The perfect mix: A cold body and a warm one to balance the temperature out, the equinoxes between the solstices, being complementary instead of in opposition, mixing, mixing, making trail mix for days to go hiking when it’s not too hot and not too chilly, comfortable, but not stagnant, vacation days well-earned spent on hobbies and yourself, a familiar author with a new book, a summersong that has you still singing even after you no longer hear it on the radio, out of the sauna and into the snow, then back again, relief, relaxing, recovery.

* * *

Reddish: Henrik’s hair, echos of scars that have not yet begun to fade, spilled blood, rusty gateways, rosy cheeks and smiles, mushroom caps found by Halvard in the woods, splintered wood, splintered emotions, splintered bodies. Of love, of liveliness, of likability, of frustration and anger and destruction, of beginnings and ends, the last color of the sun before the violent night, the color of danger, of warning, a power that goes all out, pushing itself to the extreme, before it suddenly, severely, stops.  
  
Blueish: Halvard’s eyes, flooding around his pupil with different waves of color, the crest and feathery wings of the blue tit, buttons on Henrik’s jacket, the veins that run underneath fragile skin, shattered mirrors reflecting the barren sky, repeating, then silent. Of sorrow, of sweetness, of solitude, of tears and triumphs and the piercing words of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” crying, healing, the reattachment of soul and body, bitter, bitter, bitter, the lost blue ribbon prize, bruises, broken bottles, fragments, and then bliss.    
  
Violet: A portion of light with its own wavelength, its own wavelength like the lakes of grassy lavender that grow along valleys, rolling and rolling with the wind, the same wind that will bring about the violet month of February, unique for being the shortest month of them all, with odd rules and an impure stone. The color of crowns, the color of kings, there are faint rivers of this color in Halvard’s eyes if one manages to get close enough, the color of Henrik’s favorite dishes, neither red, neither blue, not quite a mixture of the two, but a color for the complexities of being and the uniqueness that paints the tail of every rainbow between the pouring rain and the sunny rays.


	8. Prism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "traditions and family" as an additional prompt. 
> 
> Nils is my name for Ladonia and if it has been forgotten, Jóhannes is Iceland.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“...And that’s the story of the young man and the young witch, who maybe one day would meet again. The end.”   
  
“But did they ever meet again?”   
  
“Maybe, Peter.”   
  
Halvard folds the book shut with both hands, an action which makes Peter and Nils protest as they want to hear more stories, hurriedly asking questions to see if they can rope Halvard into telling another. A tactic that sometimes works during particularly quiet family gatherings, gatherings where Halvard is left alone to watch his nephews and has nothing else better to do, as he is now.   
  
“I don’t get it,” Nils scratches his orange head, “did the witch become the fox in the end? Did he trade the fox’s soul to save his friend? Was the witch the fox all along?”   
  
“I’m much more interested to see what you think about the story, boys.”   
  
“I think the witch was the fox in the young man’s dream, he used the dying spirit of the fox to travel into the afterlife and save his friend with the help of the forest spirits, or something, I dunno.”    
  
“But maybe he was always a fox after all, Nils! I mean, witches are kind of like foxes.”   
  
They jabber back and forth, arguing about what constitutes a witch anyway, the kind of discussion and banter that would make Halvard smile if they weren’t so loud, so he sighs, opens another book piled up beside him, and clears his dusty voice.   
  
“Do you want to hear another story?” he offers, if only so that he has control of the volume as the narrator.   
  
Several excited cheers and affirmations later, Halvard begins telling another story, and then another, about a holiday party in another country, about coping with unending sadness, about an illness, more stories about magic and spirits, lines from a poem written in six parts. As Halvard finishes the poem, everyone returns home from the store. Halvard goes to greet them and the adults chatter amongst themselves in the kitchen. Jóhannes refuses to admit he’s a child but he’s also not interested in what they’re talking about (they’re conversations he finds old fashioned and has no place in), so he excuses himself to the bathroom but instead of returning he plops himself down on ground next to the fire and begins to finish his knitting project.   
  
“Your brother is really good at telling stories!” Peter tells him.   
  
“My  _ brother _ is also a really good liar,” Jóhannes sighs behind the clacking of his knitting needles. “You do know he’s not _actually_ reading from those books he picks out, right? It’s all an act, I swear to you if you open the book he read from you’ll find nothing similar between the stories he tells you and the text on the pages.” He lowers his voice and buries his face into the scarf wrapped around his neck. “He makes them all up. It’s deceptive, even if they’re good.”   
  
The boys don’t believe him, Jóhannes tells them to check for themselves, and he smirks when the the two of them pick up the books on the end table to check. A frayed book on thermodynamics, a bound volume of cake recipes, a journal that seems to be completely blank until Nils frustratedly flips through it, and about halfway through the words start.   
  
“Isn’t this Halvard’s writing?” Nils squints, trying to make it out.    
  
“ _Aaaaand_ that’s enough of that!” A series of hearty laughs, gently taking the book from Nil’s small fingers and holding it high above his head. Henrik beams down at them, smiling, placing the journal high up and out of sight, distracting the gesture with mentions of leftover cookies in the kitchen and how they can have extra before bedtime if they go now.   
  
“They’re both really good liars,” Jóhannes whispers to himself next to the crackling fire, after everyone has gone, briefly looking upwards at where Henrik stashed the book and wondering, for a moment, if he dared to pry.   


* * *

The odd journal and Henrik’s strange appearance fade from memory as festivities continue, one by one everyone goes off to bed, until there are only two people left awake. Henrik relays to Halvard the close encounter the boys had with one of his handwritten works and where he had moved it to, information that Halvard simply nods at.    
  
“Are you nodding because you think it was the right thing to do? I don’t know what was written in that particular one but I didn’t want to risk it if it was something you didn’t want them seeing.”   
  
“I’m nodding because it happened and I’m accepting it and I’m tired,” Halvard sniffs, rolling over in bed and shifting a little onto his back. “I don’t think it would’ve been an issue, but thank you for looking out for me, anyway.”   
  
Henrik moves too, so that they’re both staring at the empty ceiling.   
  
“In return, could you do me a favor?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Could you just talk for a while? To lull me to sleep?”   
  
A noise of affirmation, Halvard turns his head and reaches out to stroke Henrik’s hair, thinking while listening to their out of sync breathing cycles, one chest rising while the other falls.   
  
“I’ve been telling stories all night, so I don’t think I’ll tell you a story, but instead, I’ll tell you some thoughts I’ve been having about stories, and about light. From the outside, a whole book and a ray of light are similar, they’re complete in themselves, but you can also divide them down into subsections. You can take a book and read it from the main character’s perspective, but when you read it again maybe you consider how one of the secondary characters feels, how they perceive the story, and how in their eyes it’s the protagonist who is wrong and they feel validated in that frustration while the protagonist doesn’t recognize that sense of wrongness in the same way at all. You could read two, three, four different stories within the same book if you took the point of view of one of these other characters. You could even analyze their story in the context of their society, or the society in which the book was written, you can slice a book up into ribbons, to completely deconstruct it, and maybe only then would you really understand the whole picture. But as you break something whole down into smaller parts of wholeness, you can also miss the complete meaning.”   
  
Halvard pauses for a minute, both his fingers in Henrik’s hair and his voice, withdrawing his hand and pressing it against his own chest while he softens his voice.   
  
“But even then, you as an individual can interpret that same piece of work in a number of different ways, you could love it while another person views the same story with distaste, or even thinks it’s dangerous, wrong. And it’s a lot like light, in a way. A beam of light is complete and whole, but if you take a prism and refract it, it’s made up of different waves, different colors. Rainbows are just light, deconstructed, like how opinions and the viewpoint of a story are just deconstructed bits of something bigger. If you only look at the red part, or whatever color stands out to you the most, you may be missing the whole rainbow and not even realizing that other colors, other interpretations, exist at all. Or maybe, if you take a story for what it is, just a ray of light, you’re missing all the individual colors contained within it, invisible unless you divide chapter by chapter into a distinct segments.”   
  
He lightly taps Henrik’s nose with his index finger, watching it wrinkle in response even though Henrik is already being whisked off to a dream, laughs aloud within his brain, and continues to speak softer.   
  
“It’s just interesting to me. The building blocks of a rainbow are there all the time, they’re just hidden until a prism happens to divide it up. So maybe, the mind is much like a prism, intaking information, bending it into its own personal angle, and experiencing a unique spectrum of thoughts and feelings that mean either something or don’t.”   
  
Then, softer still.   


* * *

In the morning, before the house begins to stir, Jóhannes finally works up the nerve to climb atop a chair and search for the bound diary of his brother, only to find it mysteriously gone. In disappointment (or perhaps relief) he grumbles a few odd notes and makes his way outside, pulling a multicolored sweater over his pajamas before leaving.  
  
He supposes Halvard retrieved it during the night, as Halvard sometimes wanders, observing every member of his family sleep with the same stare one finds in a dedicated watchdog.   
  
Jóhannes distracts himself by following individual threads in his sweater with careful eyes, tracing reds and violets and every color in between, crisscrossing and overlapping while still being individual strings.  
  
In the light, his hair reflects the same color of the snow. It’s cold, but it’s okay.  
  
He’ll pretend not to notice when he goes to Henrik’s house unannounced in a few months and finds the same journal tucked away in some crowded corner of Henrik’s belongings, knowing Halvard stashed it there for safekeeping. He’ll be tempted again, too, to read secrets without permission, some words that Henrik himself isn’t privy to knowing, and he’ll decide against it, holding the book in his hands and pressing it against his chest is if he could absorb the contents that way. He won’t say a word when he catches Halvard throwing pages into the fire, the question of whether he’s erasing bad memories or good ones will be perched on his lips but never take flight, and part of him will be annoyed, frustrated, that he doesn’t know.  
  
Jóhannes won’t know, but he can imagine the words Halvard scrawls to himself in thick ink, and it’s a thought that makes him involuntarily smile into the neck of his sweater for reasons he can’t really discern.   
  
A red fox pads its way out into the open, on the border of Halvard’s property. It stays for a while, just long enough for Jóhannes to capture a picture of it on his phone and make it his background before Henrik opens the door and the fox scurries away as fast as it can.   
  
Breakfast will be chatty, Tino will gossip and rope everyone into some discussion or another, Jóhannes leaves in the afternoon to catch a flight home, and on the plane the young girl seated next to him pokes his shoulder and asks about the animal on his phone screen. She asks him to tell a story, and he’ll pause for a moment before he complies, telling the same story of two friends and the fox he’s been hearing his whole life from his parents, a story _about_ his parents, before he tells one of his own.


End file.
